


Evensong

by zobo07



Category: Dead Poets Society (1989)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 10:18:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13901937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zobo07/pseuds/zobo07
Summary: Keating gives one last lecture at Welton before being placed on probation. Crossposted.





	Evensong

Keating glanced at the clock in his office, and with a flick of his fingers he seized Bach's No. 2 Cello Suite Prelude by the throat.

Bewilderment hung over the classroom like fog. When Keating arrived there was little to no acknowledgement. Nervous tongue-clicking from the boys was so few and far between that silence roared louder, multiplying the clang of a dropped pin into possibly-imagined echoes.

Welton died the day after Neil did.

Gravity seemed to work its wonder on them. From front to back some sat straight aided by their propped elbows, followed by those curved over onto the flats of their arms, followed by the ones leaning back in their seats. From left to right levels changed and slanted down, from a few who were balanced to the many who were falling left or right at random like gnarled branches of a willow tree.

And very near the middle of the room, an empty chair.

Though single it pressed against the walls of the rooms, pushed at the confines of their minds.

Rattling them.

"Greetings, boys," Keating finally said.

A few muttered in response. Some who weren't inclined to speak inclined their heads instead.

Most of them didn't move at all.

"Nothing special planned for today, before you ask. Just poetry."

No consideration of that question this week. No subsequent groans. Keating knew no one was going to ask, but maybe a little routine maintenance was in order here, just to keep everybody sane.

"'My Last Duchess,' was going to be the poem for today's class, but there's been a slight change in the syllabus. Instead we'll be covering Thomas Hardy's "The Darkling Thrush." Mr. Anderson, will you please read aloud?"

"'I leant upon a coppice gate/When Frost was spectre-gray,/and Winter's dregs made desolate/The weakening eye of day./The tangled bine-stems scored the sky/Like strings of broken lyres,/And… and all mankind that haunted…' I can't." Todd swiped at his eyes and averted them.

Keating leaned forward. "Apologies," he muttered under his breath. Then straightened: "Mr. Cameron, please take over."

"'Like strings of broken lyres,/And all mankind that haunted nigh/Had sought their household fires,'" he read, voice brass over megaphone in the hazy silence.

"That will do for now. Thank you, Mr. Cameron. Now what's going on in the first stanza?"

"It's dusk." Knox flicked a pencil up and down his desk. "'The weakening eye of day.'"

"Very good, Mr. Overstreet. From where is the speaker speaking?"

"'Coppice,'" Cameron said loudly. "He's obviously in the woods somewhere in the middle of winter."

"Yes. And how does winter play into the poem's mood?"

With this Charlie leaned back and rolled his eyes, groaning, "Why this, Mr. Keating? Why today?"

"Continue reading, Mr. Dalton. You might find you like it better than you think." Keating paused. "Well, I think that question of winter has been answered, then, by your own. Mr. Dalton, if you will."

"'The land's sharp features seemed to be/The Century's corpse outleant,/His crypt the cloudy canopy,/The wind his death-lament." He read flatly. "'The ancient pulse of germ and birth/Was shrunken hard and dry,/And every spirit upon earth/Seemed fervourless as I.' What's the point of this?"

"'The Century's corpse.' A specific date, anybody?"

"December 31, 1899."

"Ah, December 31, 1899. Far less poetic than 'The Century's corpse,' which gives us as much in as few words. Why this date, gentlemen? Why not any other day in winter? Why not any other year?"

"It's an end. A miserable end."

"Yes, Mr. Dalton, it certainly feels like an end, doesn't it? But what does each end signify?"

"The unknown?"

"It can, Mr. Pitts."

"Nothingness," said Charlie.

"For naturalists, certainly. And we are dealing with death as imagery."

"But the poem is about a season."

Again the eyes of all those invested shifted to the front.

"Mr. Anderson?"

"It's about a season, and it's only compared to death—the subject is usually more important than the comparison. And seasons don't die; they change. It could mean a new beginning." Todd's eyes fluttered down to the wooden lines of his desk before he looked back up to Mr. Keating.

This wasn't met with any surprise from the class, and they had long since tired of enthusiasm. In essence and eloquence, Todd stood alone.

Keating, however, stood a little straighter. "Continue, Mr. Anderson. You were saying?"

"Just that there's either going to be a sign of spring or it's going to be winter forever," he muttered. "But it's at the end of the last century, and time didn't just stop after that."

"Interesting." Keating rubbed his chin, but not before giving Todd a discreet wink, "What about the rest of you in the class? Do you think Mr. Hardy means it literally? Or do you agree with Todd?"

"Why say it if he doesn't mean it literally?"

"I don't know, Mr. Cameron."

A tentative hand rose in the air.

"Yes, Mr. Meeks?"

"In some of these poems they say seasons die, right? But of course they don't because they're followed by other seasons. He could be speaking figuratively."

"Excellent, Mr. Meeks. So we've determined that it can go both ways. Mr. Anderson has already guessed at which. Unless somebody else has another guess, we'll continue reading. Mr. Dalton?"

Charlie leaned, if possible, further back in his chair. "I designate Knox," he said with a trace of a smirk.

"Very well. Mr. Overstreet?"

Knox's shoulders deflated as he hunched forward over his book. A moment later, his higher inflections seized the air. "'At once a voice arose among/The bleak twigs overhead/In a full-hearted evensong/Of joy illimited;/An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,/In blast-beruffled plume,/Had chosen thus to fling his soul/Upon the growing gloom.'"

"Tell me—what's happening now?"

"New character." Charlie rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.

"Yes. And what?"

"A thrush." One corner of his mouth twitched.

"How astute. The paragon of genius, gents."

It felt good to laugh.

"And what is a thrush?"

"It's a bird," Cameron said impatiently.

"A songbird, indeed. Very good. We've gathered that he's singing, and he's described as 'frail, gaunt, and small.'"

"Sort of makes him like the speaker." Knox's face drooped. "At least in mindset."

"Yes, Mr. Overstreet! Yet the bird is singing. And in 'blast-beruffled plume.' Thus, with pomp. In the middle of winter. Why?"

It used to be funny when Mr. Keating got so excited when a student was on the right track. Now laughs were rationed to actual jokes, and jokes that snuck up on the boys before they had a chance to remember how they were supposed to be sullen.

"Maybe he feels like he has to, has to sing even though it's sad, because it's the only way he can keep living."

Keating paused in the silence that fell upon the class, looking over to Todd. "Where from the poem do you get that?"

"'Had chosen thus—'" Todd's voice cracked. He took a deep breath. '"Had chosen thus to fling his soul/Upon the growing gloom.' He's flinging his soul, and that motion has a lot of gravity to it. It makes me feel like he has to."

Turning as he spoke, Keating wrote this line on the board with such vigor that the chalk cracked. Then, slamming the chalk down, he whirled back around and walked over. "Can you read the last stanza for us, Todd?" Keating asked, almost imperceptibly.

Todd took a brief breath before clearing his throat. "'So little cause for carolings/Of such ecstatic sound/Was written on terrestrial things/Afar or night around,/That I could think there trembled through his h—happy good-night air/Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew,'" he swallowed, "'And I—I was unaware.'"

Everybody knew Neil Perry. Everybody knew he was a good guy, likeable, friendly, encouraging. So nobody begrudged Todd the tears in his voice, for as he was his roommate they knew Neil had worked his magic on him most of all.

"Any new action?"

"No. It's stuck in the caroling." Knox scowled. Never before had exaltation irked him so.

"Stupid bird," said Charlie. "Why is it singing?"

"Why do you think?"

"'So little cause for carolings.' How the hell should I know?"

Some of the boys sucked air through their cheeks. Cameron whirled around, but Charlie didn't smile or place his elbows behind his head. It honestly wasn't for the glances this time. He didn't care.

From the way Todd's head was down as if he didn't hear (though he did—he heard everything) and Knox kept playing with his pencil and Meeks and Pitts didn't bother to turn around, they didn't care either.

Because most rules were goddamn stupid, especially when they couldn't even keep a guy from killing himself.

"You've just exhibited the speaker's sentiment, Mr. Dalton. And, it sounds like, most other living things. So if the speaker won't sing in the gloom, and terrestrial things near or far won't sing in the gloom, why is the bird singing?"

"Obviously the bird sees something hopeful that the speaker doesn't."

"Indeed, Mr. Cameron. And, as we all know, most good stories end in reversal for the protagonist. Similarly, most good poems end with a leap. So why doesn't the speaker feel any hope like the bird does?"

"Maybe he doesn't feel it, but he's looking at least," said Knox. "That counts as change."

"It does."

"Do you think he finds his hope, Mr. Keating?" He asked. His eyes loomed large, and his frame was small.

A father might have wept.

"That's up to you. Each and every one of you. What's implied in the poem is that hope is everywhere, even in the bleakest circumstances. When the idea of it is planted in the speaker's head, he is likely to find it."

And for the first time there was no room for interpretation. Because Neil, bless his brave heart, had a wedge between himself and these boys. There had to be something halfway navigable for them. They had to believe it.

"Well, that's it for today."

But the boys didn't move. They muttered and drummed their fingers until finally someone asked, "What's the assignment, Mr. Keating?"

"Assignment? A restful weekend, I think. Know I'm in need of one."

They rose then, or began to rise, since it took a while. Eventually they were up and toward the door with heads down, carried by the momentum of their shuffling feet.

"Gentlemen?"

With difficulty, they stopped.

"Don't forget."

Keating locked up his office and walked out of Welton, feeling the breeze twirl the leaves of a nearby tree and curling up small on the ground under it. Later McAllister would take his arm and lead him to his office for tea, chiding him gently along the way. Tomorrow or the next day Welton would start crafting a villain from the most live bait so fathers wouldn't withdraw their sons. Probably sooner when Nolan found this spectacle.

But it was worth it.

It was all worth it.

For only now did he sleep.

 


End file.
